


Expecto Patronum

by hxllowsandhorcruxes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dementors, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Good Draco Malfoy, Happy Ending, HarryPotter - Freeform, Hogwarts, Injury, Light Angst, Magic, Patronus Charm (Harry Potter), Pregnancy, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Smut, Tension, blowjob, dinnerparty, draco - Freeform, dracomalfoy - Freeform, dramione - Freeform, ginny weasley - Freeform, hermione - Freeform, hermionegranger - Freeform, ron weasley - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28692186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hxllowsandhorcruxes/pseuds/hxllowsandhorcruxes
Summary: It's not like he needs to know the spell. It's not a matter of life or death. But when Hermione had discovered that he couldn't produce one, it caught her off guard. Because she'd just assumed, naively, that everyone could. Or at least people will magical skill sets such as Draco's.So his inability to conjure a patronus charm had been, in a word, shocking to her.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 12
Kudos: 148





	Expecto Patronum

"It's complicated magic." Hermione sighs, dragging the tip of her pointer finger along her wand. The carvings of the wooden vines draw her attention away for a split second before she looks back up at him. At his slumped, defeat looking posture. "You can't get so discouraged every time it doesn't work."

Draco's brows are furrowed, so intensely that they're almost knitted together in the center, and he sighs exasperatedly, leaning back and gripping at the desk top behind him. His wand clatters back onto the wooden surface.

"Can you blame me for being frustrated?" He rolls his broad shoulder back, his muscles contracting with pent up tension. "We've been at this for hours."

"And odds are, it's probably not going to happen tonight. But that's okay." Hermione strides forward, coming up in front of him and pressing her hands against his chest. She can feel his heartbeat slamming under her fingertips as she does, and she sighs, focusing on the way it speeds when she touches him. Moves her hands up and around to the back of his neck, intertwining her fingers together there and pulling him into a tight embrace. He takes in a deep breath, his face buried in her curly hair, and grips her tighter with those long, slender fingers of his. They dig into her waist. Bruise her skin. Show her his frustration.

"I know," She mutters, stroking his back comfortingly. "I know..." It's something she's done ever since she discovered that he seems to find it soothing, the tension in his muscles melting away every time like an ice cube over a flame. And he sighs, right on cue, into her shoulder, making a soft groaning noise before he draws back into an upright position.

He looks tired, she notices. Like he hasn't been sleeping very well. And although that might be partially Hermione's fault, she isn't sure why he's not sleeping after they've finished with their... late night activities. Maybe he's worrying about this. But he shouldn't be. It's not like he needs to know the spell. It's not a matter of life or death. But when Hermione had discovered that he couldn't produce one, it caught her off guard. Because she'd just assumed, naively, that everyone could. Or at least people will magical skill sets such as Draco's.

So his inability to conjure a patronus charm had been, in a word, shocking to her. 

"What do you think is getting in the way?" She strokes her hand up his arm, purposefully avoiding the spot where she knows his Dark Mark is seared into his skin. He always hates when she accidentally touches it. Apparently, it's painful. "Is there some sort of mental block?"

"I don't know, Granger." He grumbles, refusing to meet her eyes. That's strange — she thinks. He always loves to stare into her eyes. He says they're the color of amber when the sun hits them. That he can see constellations in her pupils. "Why don't we give it a rest for today? I'm tired."

She scans her gaze over his face. Lets it flick to all her favorite parts of his complexion. His sharp, almost cruel jawline. The definition of it. His lips, plush and pink in the perfect way. His eyes. Those sharp, piercing gray eyes that she's fallen so deeply in love with over the past two years. Ever since the war ended, and they've tried to forget about everything that's happened. But they can't really forget. Not all the way, at least. Not with that Mark on his arm. Not with the scarred word carved into hers.

There are dark circles under his eyes. She reaches up and presses her fingertips lightly to his cheek. 

"Alright." She nods, offering him a weak smile, "We can stop. Let's get you to bed."

It's pitch black outside as they move back through the halls of their house, the candle lit hallways only making Draco's eyelids droop more. He really does seem exhausted. She almost feels bad for trying to get him to produce the charm at all today. She should have given him a break, even when he'd reassured her that he could do it. She should have known. She knows what it means when his shoulder slump forward like that. When his lips stay pulled into a permanent frown. When those circles appear under his eyes, making him look more dead than alive against the pale hue of his skin tone.

He looks sick. And she's only made things worse.

"I shouldn't have pushed you today," She mumbles as she leads him towards their bedroom, his weight leaning against her almost overwhelmingly. He's just so tall. So hard to keep from toppling over. "I'm sorry."

"I said I could do it, Granger." He sighs longly, "It's not your fault."

"I know, but I should have realized how exhausted you were."

Draco only huffs. "I'm always exhausted."

Their bedroom door finally presents itself in front of them, and Hermione pushes it open, leading Draco inside and helping him lay down on the bed, his arms splaying out by his sides as he stares up at the ceiling. She watches him there for a moment, her heart lurching at the sight of him like this. She isn't sure why it takes so much out of him — trying to produce it. She knows how it used to affect Harry. How he would barely be able to stand after fighting off an entire swarm of Dementors. But that's just it. There are no Dementors. Draco's not trying to defend himself from anything.

There's just something about it that exhausts him more than she's ever seen before, and she considers asking him about it. Again. He'll probably just give her the same simple answer. 

"I don't know why, Granger."

She doesn't believe that response. Not at all. She thinks that he does know. He just doesn't want to tell her for some reason. 

"Draco?" She asks after she's laid down on the bed next to him, her head resting on his chest, rising and falling slowly with his breaths. 

"Hm?"

"We don't have to do it anymore."

He sighs, shifting slightly and adjusting his arm underneath her. "I know we don't have to. But I want to."

"Are you sure?" She picks at a thread on his sweater, pulling at it until it starts to unravel others with it. She stops, wincing. "I mean, I don't think we're going to be attacked by Dementors any time soon. You really don't need to know how to do it…”

"You don't understand, Granger." He exhales sharply, "That's not what it's about."

"Well, what is it about then?" She props herself up on her elbow, staring down at him on the mattress. "You've never actually told me why you're so dead set on being able to do it."

"Because it's pathetic that I can't." He snaps, "How would you feel if everyone else around you could do something and you were the only one defecting?"

Hermione softens her expression, and she rests her hand on top of his, squeezing tightly. "You're not defecting, Draco."

"Well, what would you call it, then?" His eyes are thinned. Sharp. Like he's trying to scare her off by the look in them. But she knows his games after so long of observing his behavior, and there's no bloody way she's about to let up. "Weakness?"

"No," She shakes her head vehemently, "It's not weakness. You know you're not weak."

Draco makes a small noise of disagreement, closing his eyes and exhaling once more. It's a tell sign of when he's frustrated, that exhale. And right on cue, he tightens his jaw, his grip around her hand doing the same. Hermione waits a few long moments before she speaks again. 

"I have a theory," She whispers, tracing her finger over the lines in his sweater. She can feel his muscular torso beneath the fabric. Feels it tense as she comes in contact with it. Travels down, towards the waist of his pants. "Of what the problem is."

"Do you?" If his eyes were open, he would have rolled them. "Please, do share.”

She ignores the obvious sarcasm in his tone, continuing anyway. "I think the issue is the memory you're trying to use. It's just not happy enough."

He scoffs. "Clearly."

"Which one are you using?" She pries, "You've never actually told me."

"That's personal Granger."

She grinds her teeth, taking her turn to roll her eyes. "We live together."

"And?"

"I'm serious, Draco." She pulls her hand away from his abdomen, resting it on her own knee. "What memory are you using?"

He stiffens momentarily before letting out that sharp exhale, giving in. She supposes that it's a good thing that he's so exhausted. Usually, he would have fought her harder. 

"When my mother taught me to play piano. During my first summer back from Hogwarts."

Hermione nods, thinking it over. She wishes she could see inside of his mind. Determine how strong of a memory that really is. Obviously, it's not strong enough. But she wonders briefly if it's the best he's got. No... surely, there has to be something else. Another time in his life when he was happy. There has to be...

"I suppose that's not good enough." She mumbles, feeling his hand go limp in hers. Cold. "Not that it's not a good memory, it's just..."

"Not good enough." He repeats, his syllables sharper — more hissed than usual. "I've got it."

"Draco—"

"No, I understand." He cuts her off, pulling his hand away and turning over on his side, "I suppose I don't have any memories worthy of producing a patronus, then."

"There's got to be something." Hermione presses on, reaching for his shoulder. But as soon as she touches him, he yanks away like she's struck him, and she pulls back with a wounded expression.

"Well, there's not." He snaps, "I hate to be such a disappointment, but that's the tragic reality of it."

"Draco," She tries again, but he swats her away, keeping his eyes shut tight. 

"Enough, Granger." He slips off the bed suddenly, stepping towards the bathroom door and yanking it open. "I don't want to discuss it anymore." It slams shut a second later, sealing him away from the reach of her eyes, and she sighs, flopping down on the mattress with her hands in her hair. She's not sure of when she finally drifts off to sleep, but she begins to stir again as Draco finally emerges from the bathroom a long time later, the bright light from the small room silhouetting him in black.

He seems mildly aggravated when he notices that her eyes open, but he doesn't say a word about it, slipping underneath the covers next to her and facing the opposite direction as his head hits the pillow. Hermione watches him breathe. Watches his shoulders slump as he slips into a dream. Listens to the calming sounds of his faint, almost inaudible snores. Runs her hand along the expanse of his long arm, and pausing near the spot with the Dark Mark. She avoids it, like she always does. There's no use in waking him now. And of course, she would never purposefully cause him pain.

It seems she's done it without meaning to, though.

She wonders as she drifts off whether he'll still be angry with her in the morning. She hopes not. She'll bring him a cup of tea. With honey, just how he likes it. She'll toast some fresh bread. Smother it in jam and bring it to him in bed. Yes, maybe that will make things better. Maybe... And if that doesn't work, she does have other tricks up her sleeve.

Draco's up before her, and she curses under her breath at the realization that his side of the bed is already empty, the space where his body laid the night before cold and vacant. That means her plan is shot. There's no Draco to bring breakfast in bed to, and she slides out from under the covers with a groan.

Where could he be?

In the study? Probably. That's where he always goes to hide away when he's cross with her, which is fairly often. They make up quickly, of course, thanks to Hermione's trusty ability to kiss him in just the right places. Say just the right things. She is the brightest witch of her age, after all. It's never been difficult for her to get what she wants. Even from Draco, who's possibly even more stubborn than she is. 

The door to his study creaks open louder than she would have preferred for it to, and she peeks inside, finding Draco sitting quietly at his desk with his eyes focused on the paper in front of him. The headline, from what Hermione can make out, seems to be something about the changes that Professor McGonagall is making at Hogwarts. She smiles. 

"Good morning." She tries, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. "I was going to bring you some tea, if you wanted—"

"That's not necessary, Granger." He doesn't look up at her. Only raises his brows the tiniest bit in acknowledgement of her presence. "I can make my own tea."

"I know that." She steps towards him again. Tests his limits. Sees how he'll react. He doesn't seem to notice. "I just felt like I should, after last night."

Draco's eye twitches slightly.

"Move off it, Granger." He exhales through his nose, his nostrils flaring. "I told you I don't want to discuss it anymore."

"And we don't have to." She says quickly, making her way to the edge of his desk and reaching bravely across its wooden surface until she finds his hand. Grips it. Waits for him to squeeze back.

He doesn't.

"But I just wanted to apologize."

Draco's brow quirks again.

"I shouldn't have pushed you when you clearly didn't want to talk about it." She runs her thumb across the back of his palm. "I'm sorry."

"Alright." He finally looks up at her. Only, his eyes are guarded. Different then they usually are. And it throws her off. "You've apologized. Can we forget about it now?

"But do you forgive me?" She furrows her brows, "Or are you just going to shove it down like you always do and let the issue bubble back up later on?"

"Would you stop analyzing me, Granger?" He shakes his head, "It's rather exhausting."

"Fine." She snaps, her patience beginning to wear thin. "I'm leaving now, since you're clearly not prepared to have a mature conversation."

"Fine by me." He mutters, "I should have put a protective barrier on the door so you wouldn't be able to get in."

"I wish you had." She glares over her shoulder before stomping out into the hallway, snapping the door shut behind her and collapsing to the floor as soon as its closed, feeling frustrated tears pool in the corners of her eyes. And she isn't exactly sure of why she's crying. But maybe it's because there's a thought that's been lingering in the back of her mind since the night before, making her feel even worse.

If Draco doesn't have a happy enough memory to produce a patronus charm, then what does that mean about how he feels when he's around her? What does that say about the past two years? Every laugh. Every smile. Every kiss. Touch. Longing stare across the room when they’d figured that they were just too different to work.

And an even more terrifying thought that stems from the first one, making her stomach twist painfully as tears prick at her waterline. The sentence replays through her mind like a broken record, over and over again. 

Does she not make him happy enough?

For the rest of the day, their house is silent. Dead. Cold. And she doesn't hear the door to Draco's study open once. He just stays sealed in there, all alone, doing who knows what while Hermione bites anxiously at her fingernails, her stomach churning with nausea.

She's made a cup of tea to calm her nerves, and a cup for Draco as well, in the hope that he'll come downstairs eventually. Plant a kiss on her forehead and tell her that it's alright — that he's not angry anymore. Then they'll sit by the fireplace like they do every morning, eating breakfast and reading the new edition of the Daily Prophet while Crookshanks purrs happily in Draco's lap. He'd told her when they first moved in together that he hated cats, and animals in general, really. But that had quickly proved false, Crookshanks taking to him almost immediately and choosing his lap over Hermione's every time. The bond was so immediate that Hermione almost caught herself getting jealous. Draco just smirked. 

But to her disappointment, he never shows up in the kitchen, or in the den, or anywhere where Hermione wanders throughout the day. And she only continues to feel worse and worse as the hours of the morning and afternoon drag on, slipping into dinner time, when he still doesn't show. She doesn't even hear a pin drop from upstairs until the sun sets completely, darkness swallowing their surroundings whole as the crickets begin to chirp. 

But then the noise comes, causing her to jump up from the couch and stare up at the ceiling. A loud bang, then a crash, like an entire wall has collapsed upstairs. 

Bang. Crash. A muffled sound of things toppling to the ground.

She starts for the staircase, her pulse in her ears as she speeds up and into the hallway, finding the door to Draco's study and gripping the handle like it might be able to steady her. But upon turning it violently, she realizes it's locked.

She wonders if he was being serious about those protective charms.

Drawing out her wand, she points it at the handle, her hands shaking so violently that she almost drops it. 

"Alohomora." She mutters, sighing with relief as she hears the promising sound of a click. Another try at the knob, and it opens, the door swinging open so violently that it smacks into the hall. Hermione rushes inside, nearly having to do a double take as she finds Draco's bookcase, stretching almost all the way up to the ceiling, toppled over on the ground, its contents spewed all over the room. And even worse, in front of it, pale and sweat drenched on the ground — Draco.

She lets out a cry, rushing to his side and collapsing next to his body, cold and clammy as she touches him. Cups his face in her hands. Pulls him into her lap, checking his pulse and sighing with relief when it slams underneath her fingertips. He's breathing. That's the second thing she checks. He's breathing, but the gasps are shallow. Weak. Like it pains him to take them in.

"Draco," She says in a worried tone, prying his wand out of his hand and tossing it to the ground. "Are you okay? Can you hear me?"

His eyebrows move. Just barely. "I can hear you, Granger."

She sighs with relief as the words leave his lips. But her usual attitude is quick to recover, since it seems he's lucid enough to explain himself. "Wonderful. Then would you please tell me what the bloody hell happened in here?"

"The bookcase fell over." He says dryly, and she resists the urge to shake him by the shoulders.

"And why did the bookcase fall over?"

"Because I knocked it over."

Her patience is wearing so thin that she thinks she might snap his wand in half.

"Doing what?"

"Spells."

It's only then that she remembers that he's looked like this once before. Only once. 

The first time he tried to produce his patronus.

"You were trying again weren't you?" She hisses, "Is that what you've been doing all day long?"

"You always are sharp, Granger." He mumbles weakly, "I'm not sure why I ever try to keep things from you."

"Are you mad?" She continues to seethe, "You know how it affects you! Why would you not tell me? You could have hurt yourself, or passed out, or—"

"Knocked over a bookshelf.'' He adds with a quiet huff of a laugh. She wants to smack him.

"Why did you do this?" She runs a hand over his forehead instead, feeling the slickness of the sweat at his hairline and brushing the silver-blonde strands out of his eyes. "You know it's not safe to attempt alone. Especially not all day long."

"Because I wanted to prove you wrong." He snaps with all the energy he seems to be able to muster, "I just thought if I got it all on my own, I'd — I'd — fuck, I don't know, Granger."

She only nods. Runs her fingertips over the exposed shell of his ear. Makes him shiver.

"I'm sorry," She whispers, "I know you're angry with me about last night. But this — this was not a good idea."

"You think I don't know that?" He shoves her hand away before making a pained expression, "I blacked out enough times to figure that out on my own.”

"You blacked out?" She raises her voice, and he only winces, turning his head away.

"Yes."

"Merlin, Draco..." She clutches him tighter, her heart lurching at the thought of him collapsing to the ground over and over again, his body growing weaker each time he gets up again. That's one thing she despises about how stubborn he is. He never knows when to quit. And even if he does know, he pretends not to. "I can't believe you didn't tell me."

"I should've." He mumbles, "But don't worry. I'm never trying it again."

She doesn't respond as she slips a hand under his back, helping him to sit up and lean against her. He groans as she brings him to his feat, his weight threatening to crush her small frame as she lugs him towards the door, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. She can feel his heartbeat, then. Slamming against her as she helps him down the hallway, towards their bedroom door, which she's grateful is still wide open. And when she lowers him down onto the bed, she watches him wince again, his hands balling into tight fists.

"Where does it hurt?" She murmurs, sliding onto the mattress next to him and slowly unbuttoning his shirt. One... two... three buttons unhooked. She can begin to see the still raised scars on his chest from sixth year, when Harry hit him with the Sectumsempra hex. She reaches out, running her pointer finger across the longest one. Traces it all the way up to his collarbone. Stops there and takes her hand away.

"Everywhere." He mumbles back, "But if you're looking for specifics, I vaguely remember hitting my head on my desk when I passed out the second or third time."

Hermione has to resist the urge to smack him, and instead, nods before heading into the bathroom to wet a towel. Draping it over Draco's forehead, she draws out her wand, casting a diagnostic charm over him. She doesn't know much about healing, but she knows enough to discern that he has a near concussion, judging by the way the picture of his brain pops up in front of her eyes. Enough rest, and he should be as good as new. But Hermione knows all to well that Draco isn't one to rest, even when he needs to.

She casts a healing charm on his head, smiling weakly as his expression relaxes, the pain melting away like a memory.

"You're not fixed yet." She says sternly as his eyes crack open to peer up at her. "You need to get some rest. At least a whole day in bed."

"You're putting me on bedrest, Granger?" He scoffs, "I really don't think that's necessary."

"I don't want to hear it." She snaps, "I'll stun you until you're healed if I have to."

Draco smirks. "I don't doubt it."

"You also need to eat something." She continues, tucking her wand back into her pocket, "I made you breakfast, and lunch, but you never showed..." His eyes flash with something like remorse, but she ignores it. "So I'll have to go make something else.”

"Granger, I'm fine, really—"

"Shut it." She swats at his arm, sliding off the mattress, "And don't you dare get off this bed until I come back, or I'll hide your wand. Do you understand?"

"I understand." He mumbles, closing his eyes again and exhaling sharply. It's that exhale she knows too well, but doesn't have the energy to focus on now. He may be frustrated with the fact that she's babying him, but she's more frustrated with the fact that he forced her too. She wouldn't be doing this if he wasn't such a bloody prideful idiot. 

It doesn't take long for her to heat up the lunch she'd prepared for the two of them, sliding it onto a tray and hurrying up the stairs with the hope that he's heeded her warning. He has, and it seems like he may actually be asleep. She creeps over to the side of the bed, feeling relieved at the sight of his relaxed expression, his arms laying limply by his sides. But as soon as she sets the tray down on the mattress, his eyes shoot open, and her relief dissipates into thin air.

"I thought you'd fallen asleep." She mutters. 

"No." He glances over at her as she climbs up next to him, "My body aches too much for that."

"I can cast another charm—"

"No, Granger. You've done enough."

She nods begrudgingly, resisting the urge to pull out her wand. But instead, she pulls the tray closer to his side, picking up the plate resting on top of it and holding it out to him. He takes it with a sigh, struggling to sit up against the headboard and wincing once more. 

"You'll feel better once you eat." Hermione urges. "I promise."

"I'm nauseated." He mutters, "I'm not entirely sure I'll be able to keep it down."

"Just try," She whispers, "Please, just try."

His expression softens at her tone, and he nods weakly, reaching down to start on the food. He's able to down nearly half the meal before he groans, turning a sort of green shade and shoving it away from him on the bed.

"That's enough." He breathes, his head falling back as the sickly shade fades away. "It tastes great, Granger, but—"

"I know." She places her hand on top of his on his, resting on his thigh. "You did great. That's plenty."

She squeezes his palm. Reassures him. It's something she's come to realize he likes — when she squeezes his hand. He's told her before that his mother used to do it when he was little, after his father would snap at him over every little mistake he made. So now, when Hermione does it, he knows that she's not angry with him. At least not angry enough that she doesn't love him anymore. He's always afraid of that. That one day her love for him will just evaporate like smoke. She's tried to tell him a million times that that isn't how it works. That you don't just go from being in love with someone to forgetting about them in the blink of an eye. But no matter how many times she says it, he doesn't seem to believe her. So she squeezes his hand.

"Draco?" She whispers after a long while of silence.

"Hm?"

"How much pain are you in, would you say, on a scale from one to ten?"

"What kind of question is that?" He furrows his brows, "I have no idea."

"Let's say, ten would be equivalent to being hit with the cruciatus cruse, and one would be that you're feeling better than you ever have before."

"One." He says, and she smacks his arm. "Fine. Five or six."

"So, does that mean you're in too much pain to... I don't know... let me make you feel better?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" He rolls his eyes, but quickly freezes as he sees Hermione's hand trail down towards the waistline of his pants, messing with his belt buckle until it's undone and slipping it through the loops of his trousers. "Granger..." He breathes, "You can't be serious."

"Why not?" She smirks, "Do you not want me to?"

"Oh, no." He says quickly, "I'm certainly not opposed to the idea."

"Then why don't you just shut up," She unzips his trousers. Slides them down his hips until his boxers are exposed. "And enjoy it."

Her hand stays on his waist as she leans forward, pressing her lips in an open mouthed kiss against the side of his neck. Bites lightly at his skin. Makes him shiver. Then she's moving up towards his jawline, leaving a trail of kisses along the way. Pausing every few seconds to throw him off.

"You're crazy, Granger." He mutters. Low, from the back of his throat. Whenever his voice gets like that, she knows she's doing something right. 

"And you're an idiot." She smiles against him, "But I love you anyway."

She finds his lips before he can responds. Hovers there for a moment, but doesn't lean forward all the way. He shifts, trying to reach her, but she only smirks, laying a hand against his chest and pushing him back into the pillows. She can feel his heartbeat slamming underneath her palm. 

"Stay still." She whispers, "I thought you were in pain?"

"Not that much pain." He mutters, and she rolls her eyes. 

"You're going to let me do this for you." She breathes, so close to his mouth that the words form on both of their lips, "Okay?"

"Okay." He meets her eyes. Holds her there for a heart stopping moment and makes a shiver run up her spine. "Okay..."

Their lips meet. Crash together, like a deadly collision, and Hermione draws in a quick breath, feeling a heat appear between her legs before spreading up through her abdomen. And Draco's hand is suddenly there, at her hip, squeezing into her flesh and making indents with his fingertips. His hands are cold, just like they always are. He's like snow to touch, she's often thought to herself. Cold, but somehow comforting. Something that you look forward to when it comes, and miss when it melts away. 

He makes a low gravely noise as she trails one hand through his hair, the other still lingering at his waist and moving lower and lower with slow, dragged out movements. He shifts slightly on the mattress as she moves the fabric of his boxers out of the way, finding his length and gripping it eagerly with one hand. He's already hard. She smirks. It's so bloody easy with him.

She runs her hand up once. The again. Stroking it. Making him twitch and groan. 

"Granger—" He gasps against her lips, digging his hands tighter into her waist. "fuck—"

"Do you like that?" She pulls back slightly, slowing the motion of her hand, at which he makes a pathetic kind of sound.

"Fuck — yes — just like that —"

"Good." She mutters, sinking down towards his waist and running her hands along his chest. Feels his abdomen underneath her fingertips. Smiles as his muscles tense and twitch. And the closer she gets to his cock, the more sensitive he becomes, gasping desperately as her thumb circles its tip. She repositions herself on the mattress, her face in front of it as she runs her hands up and down his shaft. 

And when she finally lets her lips meet it — her tongue — the back of her throat — he makes a kind of sound that she's committed to memory a million times before, because she'll never get anywhere near sick of hearing it. It's her favorite song. A song of the low, moaning-groan kind. Where he follows it by instinctively bucking his hips towards her, unable to control himself as her tongue drags up from the base to the tip, moving just slowly enough to drive him mad. And the kind of pleading that spills from his lips next only spurs her on. Reminds her of how much she loves doing this for him. 

She thinks back to her days at Hogwarts, when girls would complain about this kind of thing. How they would roll their eyes as they talked about their boyfriends asking for it. "He wants it every bloody night" they would say, sighing like it was the worst thing in the world. And when Hermione had first found herself herself in the position to preform it, she began dreading what was to come. But then...to say the experience had not been what she'd expected would be an understatement. Because it was not at all like what those girls had described it as. 

She still remembers the first time like it was yesterday. The way Draco had gripped her hair as she went down on him. Tugged at it. Knotted his fingertips into her curls. Hissed through his teeth and threw his head back as he came, the biting flavor of it sliding down the back of Hermione's throat. The way he'd kissed her afterwards, and pulled her against his chest on the bed and fell asleep in that same position. He never moved. Never let her go. 

So, no, she never dreaded this kind of thing like those other girls seemed to.

He pushes forward again. Forgets that he's supposed to be staying still and loses control into the back of her throat, making her gag and squeeze her eyes shut. There's sweat beginning to bead at her hairline as he gasps. Chokes. Gathers her hair in his fists and tugs encouragingly.

"Just like that—" He repeats, so many times that he almost sounds like a broken record, "Fuck — just like that."

She lets him slide deeper, runs her tongue up from the base to the tip in a rhythm that makes him groan and roll his hips. And her jaw is aching by the time she realizes he's almost there. He's asking for it. For permission.

"Please," He's moaning. "Please, I need to—"

And she doesn't have the chance to nod before she suddenly tastes it, coating her tongue and making her shiver as it slides towards the back of her throat. He's able to get one ragged, lazy thrust in before she pulls away, her eyes drifting up to focus on his heaving chest and flushed face, the pale hue of his skin replaced by flustered pink. And she's sure that he's watching her as she swallows it in one gulp, her lips red and swollen as she runs her tongue over them, cleaning off any remaining evidence of him and smiling. 

He just stares, just like he always does, as if he's suspended in disbelief that what's just happened actually happened. But then she leans forward, pressing her lips against his again and letting him taste her. Taste himself. And he winces slightly before giving in, his tongue moving into her mouth as she tilts her head to the side, moaning into him and moving to straddle his lap. She can feel his hands as they dig into her hips, bruising her skin in a way she knows she'll feel the next day. 

"You're something else, Granger." He mumbles between kisses, "I can never stay mad at you."

She only smirks. "After that, I would hope not."

Draco sleeps until late the next day. Almost noon. And Hermione is more than relieved.

When he finally does stir, she's prepared to deal with his not-so-morning-person attitude, a cup of tea and toast sitting on his bedside table with his wand laid next to them. He smiles weakly as he glances over at it, meeting her gaze next with a comforting kind of warmth that Hermione's missed in his irises. It's nice to see it every once in a while. 

"You're spoiling me, Granger." He mumbles, leaning over to grab the mug, "You really don't need to do all this."

"What ever happened to you to make you believe that you don't deserve to be taken care of?" She shakes her head, resting her hand on his thigh from over the comforter.

"Nothing specific." He says, "I'm just not used to being pampered."

"Well, get used to it." She tilts her nose up dignifiedly, "Because for the rest of your life, if you need anything, I'm here."

"Granger—"

"And I'm not leaving." She holds his gaze. Focuses in on it. "Ever." 

She watches as something in his eyes flickers. Flashes. Then dies just as quickly as it's appeared. 

"I know." He says. Though she's not sure if she believes him. 

"Harry invited us over for dinner next week." Hermione looks up from her book at around three o'clock in the afternoon, suddenly remembering something she meant to tell Draco days ago. "The Weasleys will be there, too."

"Oh, wonderful." Draco grumbles, messing with the sleeve of his wooly sweater, "You know how much I look forward to socializing with the golden boy and his boyfriend."

"Oh, stop it." Hermione rolls her eyes, "I've told you a million times before. You have to be civil to my friends."

"Aren't I always?"

"Not necessarily." She glares, "If I remember correctly, last time you spent the whole meal in dead silence, glaring daggers at Ron while he told a story about his vacation. I had to lie and tell them it was because you had a stomach ache."

"No, it was because it was a stupid story." He grumbles, "If it had been interesting, I wouldn't have looked so miserable."

She huffs a laugh. "You're impossible."

"Maybe."

Hermione slips off the bed, grabbing her wand and casting a quick diagnostic spell on Draco. He looks mostly healed. Just a bit of lingering soreness and tension in his muscles, and a minor headache. Nothing a bit of massaging won't fix.

"Let me rub your shoulders." She crawls towards him, and his expression twists so suddenly that she almost recoils. "What?"

"Rub my shoulders?" He repeats, his eyebrows raised like she's said something utterly insane. 

"Yes. What's so horrible about that?"

"I just—" He shakes his head, blinking, "Didn't think I'd ever let anyone rub my shoulders."

"I suppose today's a day for firsts, then." She says matter-of-factly, forcing him to move forward on the bed and let her squeeze in between him and the headboard. Her hands find his broad shoulders a moment later, and she splays out her palms on his back, beginning to twist her knuckles into the sides of his shoulder blades. He hisses, jerking forward dramatically as if she's digging a knife into his muscles.

"Sit still." She says sternly, and he just grumbles something inaudible under his breath, letting her try again. She digs her thumbs into his skin, working out the tension inch by inch and ignoring his constant groans and complaints. That she's "doing it too hard", and "not being gentle enough".

"I thought you didn't like to be pampered." She says, leaning forward to speak directly beside his ear. 

"I don't like being tortured, either." He retorts. 

A few minutes of what Draco calls "abuse" and she's satisfied, drawing her hands back into her lap as she rests her head against his back.

"All done." She mutters into his sweater, "Feel any better?"

He hesitates for a moment before begrudgingly admitting, "A bit."

The next day, she offers him her hand as he stands up for the first time, at which he shoots her a frustrated glare before taking it with a tight grip. And he seems even more aggravated that when he stands, his knees wobble. 

"Bloody hell," He hisses through his teeth, and Hermione only rests her hand against his chest, drawing his attention away from the disappointment. 

"You've been immobile for a whole day." She says, "Give yourself a break."

"I have given myself a break," He snaps, "Wasn't that the whole point of staying in bed?"

“No, the point was to let yourself recover." She matches his snippy tone, "Since you went and injured yourself."

"Which I regret," He pushes her hand away, taking a few unstable steps on his own before returning to his original gate. "But we can stop talking about it now."

Hermione doesn't respond. Just watches him with concerned eyes as he strides towards the door, stretching out his long arms and back. Then he disappears into the hallway without another word, and she's left wondering if she need to go after him. 

She does. 

He's in the kitchen when she finds him next, the new edition of the Daily Prophet unfolded in his hands. It crinkles under his grip as his silver eyes scan over the headlines, his brows furrowed as he brings his bottom lip between his teeth. She notices that he does that when he's nervous. Chews at his lip. Sometimes even until it bruises. 

"What is it?" She asks, and he glances up distractedly, as if he was so focused on the paper that he hadn't noticed she was there at all. He only flicks the paper towards her in response, at which she takes it, glancing over the biggest headline, smack in the center of the page. 

Another Former Death Eater Convicted for War Crimes — it reads in bold font — Who's Next to be Sent to Azkaban?

Her stomach does a painful kind of flip as she hands it back to him. It's been two years since the war ended, and still, Hermione feels as if it were only yesterday that she was watching Draco after the Dark Lord's death, scratching and tearing at his forearm as if he'd be able to pull the skin away. And even now, as she glances at the spot where she knows the Mark lays, he flinches. 

"They're not going to come for you," She says, moving towards him and placing a hand on his arm. "You already had your trail and got off."

"There could be re-trails, Granger." He mutters. "Haven't you been reading the paper? The Ministry wants us convicted. All of us."

"But you're different from the rest of them." She moves down to his hand. Squeezes it. "You didn't ever kill anyone. If anything, you were merely a bystander—"

"I was on the wrong side of the war." He snaps. "I participated. I have the Mark. They don't need anything else to go on."

"Let's not worry until we actually have something to worry about."

"I do have something to worry about." His voice begins to raise. "Do you not understand what's happening here? I could be sent to Azkaban. Azkaban."

"I'm aware of what Azkaban is." She thins her eyes, "But you won't be. I promise—"

"You can't promise that." He's furious. She can see it behind his eyes. And as she pulls her hand back from his arm, he turns his face away, exhaling quickly through his nose. "My father went to Azkaban." His voice is a low growl when he speaks again. "And when he came back, he was never the same."

"Draco—"

"Enough, Granger." He shoves past her, towards the stairs, stopping with his back to her at the bottom step. She can see his knuckles turn white from how tightly he grips the railing. "You don't get to tell me it's going to be okay. Especially not since you're...well, you."

She only stares as he stomps up the staircase, slamming the door to his study closed behind him and disappearing once again. 

The next week is tense. They sleep in the same bed, but that's about all that goes on between them. Draco doesn't speak. Doesn't smile. Barely even looks at her. When she goes to sit by the fireplace every morning, with Crookshanks purring at her heels, she waits for him to come join her. Like he always does. But he never comes. Not for an entire week. And she finds herself sitting alone, with Crookshanks sitting by the foot of her chair. It seems that if Draco's lap is unavailable, he prefers the floor. 

They pass in the kitchen a few times. Share silent stares and go back to their own business. He doesn't ask about her day, or how she's feeling, or whether she wants to talk things out. He's turned to stone. Or, ice, rather. Cold. Frozen. Untouchable. 

She walks by his study every day on the way to their bedroom, wondering if she should knock on the door. But she stops herself every time, pulling her hand back to her side and letting a sigh of disappointment escape. She figures that if he wants to speak to her, he will. And he isn't. 

It isn't until the night before they're supposed to go to Harry's for dinner, when they're sitting in silence on their bed reading separate books, that Hermione finally speaks. At least more than a few words. 

"We're going to Harry's tomorrow night." She mutters, glancing over at him while he flips another page, "And I'd appreciate if we talked things out before then."

"What, so we can look like the perfect couple in front of your precious friends?" He scoffs, "Worried they'll be unimpressed with the life I've provided for you?"

"No one's perfect." She tries to brush off his snarky tone, "But we could at least not be fighting."

"We're not fighting." He says, his eyes still glued to his book, "If you don't speak, you can't fight."

"I'd rather speak." She snaps her own book shut, and he finally looks towards her with a blank expression. "Look, I know you're worried. And in all honesty, I am too. But pushing me away isn't going to make things any easier."

"Won't it?" He stares. Blinks a few times like he's trying to memorize the way her face looks in front of him. "Think about it, Granger. If I get sent to Azkaban, what'll that do to you?"

Hermione pauses. She hasn't actually thought about herself yet — how she would feel if he were sent away. But once she considers it, the answer is immediately evident in her mind. "I — I'd be devastated."

"Exactly." He raises his eyebrows as if she's proving his point, "And how am I supposed to just sit around and pretend like every day — every second I spend with you won't only make things more painful in the future?"

"But you're not going to prison," She shakes her head, "And to force me out of your life just because it's a possibility is — it's unnecessarily premature."

"Maybe I'm just thinking ahead." He says, dropping her gaze. "I may have my freedom right now, but..."

"You're not going to Azkaban." Hermione rests her hand on his thigh. He looks up again. "And even if you do, I'll wait."

"Wait for what?"

"For you."

Draco's face is blank. Hollow. Like he doesn't know what to think about what she's just said. But then he shakes his head, sighing. 

"I can't do that to you, Granger."

She slides her hand up until she finds his arm. Then his palm. She squeezes it in hers. "Luckily for you, I'm able to make my own choices. And I've decided to wait for you, whether you like it or not."

A tiny, crack of a smile crosses his lips. He huffs. 

"If you're not sick of me by then."

"If after this week's silent treatment I'm not sick of you yet, then you're pretty much in the clear."

They're quiet for a moment before Draco speaks again. 

"You said before that we weren't going to be attacked by Dementors any time soon, so I didn't need to know how to conjure a patronus."

"Yes, I did."

He looks up at her, his eyes glinting with something that shocks her. Because it's so rare that she ever sees it. 

He looks afraid. 

"What about now?"

"Just...don't speak if you feel like you're about to say something unfriendly." Hermione's arm is hooked in Draco's as they stand outside the front door of Harry's London flat, her knuckles ready to rap against the door. He's dressed in a long black overcoat, that makes him look far less muggle-like than Hermione would have preferred strolling through the streets of London, but Draco, sticking to his usual stubborn ways, had refused to change. "Smile and look pretty, and we'll get through this with no problem."

"You act like I don't know how to control myself." He scoffs as she knocks once. Twice. Three times. 

"You don't—"

The door swings open before she can get the whole word out, and Harry and Ginny's smiling faces meet her gaze. 

"'Mione!" Ginny exclaims, shooting forward without regard for the bouquet of flowers Hermione's holding in both hands and wrapping her arms tightly around her neck. 

"Ginny, it's so good to see you." Hermione laughs, shoving the flowers blindly into Draco's arms as she hugs her friend back, hearing him grumble under his breath beside her. As Ginny pulls back, Harry takes her place, a little less aggressively, and wraps Hermione in a tight embrace.

"We've missed you." He mutters, and Hermione nods into his shoulder. 

"I've missed you all, too."

"Well, come in, come in," Harry backs up, stepping to the side to let them both through the doorway, "Ron's already inside."

She barely hears Draco and Harry address each other tightly as she strolls into their living room. 

"Potter."

"Malfoy."

She has other things on her mind, specifically—

"Hermione." Ron's voice comes from the kitchen behind her, and she spins to find him leaning on the doorway, a wide, crooked smile across his face. 

"Ron." Her voice is muffled as she collides with him, hugging him as if it's been years since they've seen each other. And honestly, that's almost how it feels. Things between her and Ron were, to put it lightly, tense after the war. Especially after she and Draco went public with their relationship, a fact that had nearly sent Ron over the edge. She still feels the pangs of guilt left over from the fact that she knows Ron is still in love with her. And she wishes she had something she could tell him as to why it just hadn't worked between them. Something other than, "I just loved someone else more..."

"It's been forever since I've seen you." She says as they pull away, noticing with a pit in her stomach that he's carefully scanning each feature of her face. And there's that smile. That smile that she used to melt for. But things have changed now. She doesn't see him that way anymore.

"I know," He shakes his head, "Since you're always trapped up in that countryside home of yours."

"Who are you to frown on countryside homes?" She smiles, trying to ignore the poorly hidden bitterness in his tone. 

"Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes." Ginny calls from the kitchen, and Hermione nods before quickly glancing over at the doorway, where Draco and Harry are standing stiffly in silence. She can almost feel the discomfort radiating off Draco's clothing, and she turns back to Ron, her stomach twisting. 

"If you'll excuse me for a moment."

Hurrying over to Draco's side, she smiles towards Harry, quickly picking up a conversation. Any conversation to split the awkward, horrible silence.

"So, Harry, how's the Ministry job treating you?"

"Oh, it's brilliant." He wraps his arm around Ginny's waist as she comes up next to him. "Though things have been a bit busy lately."

"Oh, I've heard." Hermione's muscles tense as she glances at Draco next to her. He doesn't seem to react, but she's sure she knows what he's thinking. Instinctively, she slips her hand into his. Squeezes once. "What about you, Gin? How's the Daily Prophet?"

"Wonderful." She smiles, "There's been lots to report on in the past few weeks."

Hermione's insides twist again. She almost feels the need to pull the two of them aside, and remind them of what's tattooed on Draco's arm. But she has a sinking suspicion that they do remember. And it's exactly why they're bringing it up. She smiles awkwardly towards Harry and Ginny, squeezing Draco's hand again for good measure. Harry glances down at it. Makes a sort of expression that she knows means he's not pleased. She clears her throat, making a quick statement about how the food smells good in the oven. Though by now, she's lost her appetite. 

"So I told mum that I thought I was getting a bit old for the sweaters on Christmas, and then she just broke down sobbing before I could stop it." Ron's talking from across the table, "It was awful." But Hermione isn't paying attention to his story. She's far too focused on the way Draco refuses to look up from his food. Refuses to crack a single smile, or even acknowledge that there's anyone else in the room but himself. 

"You should've know that was how she'd react." Ginny scolds her brother, "Those sweaters are a tradition."

"A bloody itchy tradition." Ron picks disinterestedly at his food, "But don't worry, I've learned my lesson."

"I still have all of mine." Harry pipes up, "I keep them in storage until the holidays, then I've got a week's worth of sweaters to wear for Christmas."

Draco scoffs quietly beside Hermione. Harry's smile flickers. Fades. 

"I have mine, too." Hermione quickly brings the attention on her, "But I wouldn't say they're too itchy, Ron."

"You're mental, you are." He waves his fork at her, mouth half full with food, "I can't even wear mine for more than ten minutes."

"That must be a shame, Weasley." Draco mumbles with a sly smile, his eyes still focused on his plate. Hermione resist the urge to kick him under the table as Ron's face flushes pink. 

Instead, she clears her throat. "So, did you all see the headline in the Prophet the other day about Professor McGonagall?"

"She was the natural choice for headmaster," Harry nods, "She deserves it. But I have to say, I didn't get the chance to read much of the article. Work's just been so busy lately."

"Oh..." Hermione nearly winces. Not this again. 

"What, with all the Death Eaters being convicted and all, I've barely had time to sleep." He continues, seeming not to notice the uncomfortable expression on Hermione's face. 

"Seven sent to Azkaban, just in the last month." Ginny carries on for him, "It's really only a matter of time before they're all locked up."

Hermione wants to scream. What is wrong with them? Are they really this oblivious, or do they just not care that Draco's sitting right in front of them, listening to every word they say? She widens her eyes at Ginny, but doesn't catch her gaze in time before she continues. 

"The Ministry really doesn't want to let up until they've all paid for their war crimes — most likely with life sentences. Isn't that what the most recent one got, Harry?"

"Yes, though I'm not sure if they'll even be able to live out a life sentence, what with the Dementors and all. I've heard they've only gotten more aggressive since the war ended."

A quick glance to her side, and Hermione finds that Draco's face has paled even more than usual. She's sure that she looks nearly the same. 

It only takes one more comment from Ron, "serves them right — the bastards deserve every last kiss", before Hermione snaps, crying out:

"Stop it!"

The table goes quiet. Ron's fork clangs against his plate, and Ginny's mouth hangs open wordlessly. Harry seems to be the only one who saw it coming, his expression tight and his eyes focused on Draco. 

"We don't mean you, Malfoy. Your situation was... different."

"As much as I appreciate the sentiment Potter, I really don't need your pity." Draco mumbles in responds, his fists balled underneath the table.

"You never killed anyone." Harry continues anyway, "We're talking about murderers here—"

"If you'll remember, Potter, I nearly murdered someone." Draco snaps suddenly, and Hermione flinches. "Snape just happened to beat me to the punch."

Harry's face falls at the mention of Snape, and at the memory that Draco's words invoke. Hermione wishes more than anything that she could just apparate out of the dining room. 

"What a charming thing to say, Malfoy." Ron sneers across the table, "Tell us, do you have any more fun stories from back when you were a war criminal?"

"Ron." Hermione hisses. 

"What?" He thins his eyes, "Why do we all have to pretend like it isn't true?"

"I agree." Draco crosses his arms, "Let's not pretend. And if you'd like, Weasley, I can show you some of the torture tactics I leaned during the war."

"You slimy fucking git—" Ron begins to stand, his fists balled, but Hermione jumps up before he can get all the way out of his chair, her eyes ablaze with fire. Ron freezes. Falls back into his seat, his expression crushed. 

"We're leaving." Hermione snaps, turning to Draco and offering him her hand. He takes it. Tightly. 

"'Mione, you really don't have to leave." Harry calls after her as they hurry for the door. Well, she hurries. Draco is yanked along behind her. 

"Yes, we do." She spins around to face him, pulling the front door open, "Because obviously, we're not welcome here."

"You are!" Harry protests, but Hermione shakes her head, letting out a saddened huff. 

"I said 'we', Harry."

He doesn't respond as she slams the door behind her. They apparate from the doorstep back into their living room a second later, and Draco only wraps her in a tight hug as she lets out a sob against his chest, the pent up tension from the dinner party exploding all at once like a broken dam and spilling down her face. 

"l'm so sorry." Hermione mumbles as Draco hands her a fresh cup of tea. The fireplace is blazing in front of her, and she pulls the wooly blanket closer around her, trying to cure the shivering that's overtaken her. "I didn't think they would be so... insensitive."

"It's fine." Draco slumps down next to her, "It's not like I expect them to welcome me with open arms."

"But they could at least be civil." Hermione shakes her head, "It's been two years..."

"And odds are, it'll be another decade before they stop acting put off by the sight of us together. Maybe after we have a few kids, they'll finally realize that we're serious."

Hermione scoffs, rubbing at her temples.

"I just need to stop letting it get to me."

"Yes, you do." Draco stares blankly at the fireplace, "It doesn't matter what they think."

"You're right." Hermione nods. "It just...stings, is all."

Draco shifts to sit straight-legged on the floor. Leans back on his arms and closes his eyes. "I imagine it does."

Hermione sighs, leaning over towards him and letting her head rest on his shoulder. Her curly hair falls over his jacket, and he lifts one of his hands, twirling a tight curl between his fingertips. 

"You know...I actually didn't have a bad time tonight." Draco says with a laugh, and Hermione sits up, looking at him with a confused expression. 

"I'm not sure how that's possible."

"No?" Draco smirks, suddenly leaning towards her and stopping when his face is breaths away from hers. The tips of their noses brush together. "Then you must not have known how bloody attractive it was when you stood up to them."

"Really?" Hermione whispers as she feels his hand slide up her thigh.

"Really."

He's leaned her back onto the carpet before she can blink, and she gasps, feeling his hand slip underneath the waistline of her jeans. 

"If it's alright with you," He leans over her, speaking in a grumbled-whisper beside her ear, "I'd like to demonstrate my appreciation for what you did."

Hermione can only nod, her nerves pricking in anticipation as he slides her pants off her hips. Her underwear go next. She moans softly as she feels his fingertips come in contact with the insides of her thighs, teasing her there for a moment before moving up...up...up... she gasps. 

"You're shivering, Granger." She hears Draco murmur from over her, and she only responds by grabbing his face in her hands and crashing their lips together. Desperately. Like she needs it to stay alive. And he hums against her in a way where she can feel the vibration from the back of his throat. Her hips roll, and she can feel him pressing against her, his fingertips grazing that spot that makes her cry out. White flashes behind her eyelids. 

He touches it again. Stays there. Increases the speed of his finger's movements, and Hermione is left gasping and moaning on the floor underneath him, feeling a wide smirk crack across Draco's face. 

"I'm going to fuck you, Granger." He whispers into her ear, "So hard that you'll be even less able to walk than I was."

She shivers for the millionth time, feeling warmth of an indescribable kind spread through her abdomen.

Over the next few months, Draco tries a few more times to get his Patronus, though all the attempts end in failure. But Hermione's just glad that he lets her sit in while he tries it, instead of doing it by himself again. It seems his previous attempt has taught him a lesson.

The threat of Azkaban continues to loom over their heads for the next few years as the Ministry vows to crack down on even more convictions, though Hermione tries her best not to show her worry. He worries enough for the both of them.

And that worry only doubles — triples, even, when Hermione rushes into their bathroom one morning in mid-october three years later, her body wracked with shivers as she gags into the toilet. A positive pregnancy test solves the mystery of the vomiting spells, and Draco turns a color gray that Hermione's sure isn't healthy before collapsing onto the floor in a passed-out heap. When he finally comes to, he downs several glasses of water while sweating profusely, his hands shaking for the first time Hermione's ever seen.

"It's going to be okay," She reassures him, trying to hide her excitement, "We've been trying for this."

"I just didn't expect it to happen so quickly." He breathes, staring down at her abdomen like he'll suddenly be able to see something. "I'm happy. I really am, I just..."

"I know." Hermione nods, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and nuzzling her face against his chest. He holds her tightly in his arms that day, rocking her back and forth for a while as she watches a smile begin to form on his lips.

Her friends are excited for them. Or at least as excited as they can manage to be. After all, Draco Malfoy being the father of her child certainly isn't their most ideal reality. But they smile widely when she tells them. Hug her and shake Draco's hand with civil smiles. He returns it, and Hermione is glad. 

The next nine months are some of the happiest of her entire life. Her pregnancy seems to soften Draco up more than she expected. It's almost shocking how his attitude shifts. He doesn't snap at her. Doesn't skip a single meal. Doesn't spend any time alone in his study with the door locked. 

He sits by the fireplace with her every morning. The only difference is that he doesn't let Crookshanks sit in his lap during breakfast anymore. But only because he insists that Hermione is the only one allowed to sit down. His job is to rub her feet. Or make her tea. Or read her his favorite books while one of his hands stays splayed over her stomach. He jumps every time the baby kicks. He never quite seems to get used to the feeling of it. 

Once she reaches nine months, Draco rarely ever leaves her side. He says he can't trust her to be on her own, but really, it seems that he's afraid that if he leaves for too long, he'll miss something. She's instructed by her doctor to go on bedrest in the last few weeks, which instantly makes Draco turn gray with worry. He spends all his time pacing around their bedroom. Running his hands through his hair and mumbling tips that the doctor had told him on how to ease contractions. Jumping every time Hermione shifts at all on the mattress. Even when she leans over to get a sip of water from the bedside table. 

At night, he sits by her side, talking to the baby about things that she isn't sure she wants the baby to hear, like "I used to call your mother mean names back in school, because I had a crush on her and didn't want to admit to it". But she never stops him. It's sweet. And something she never quite expected from him. 

When the baby finally does come, Draco seems to be in far more pain than Hermione. With every wince on Hermione's face — every sharp exhale — inhale — exhale — he seems ready to pass out all over again. And when the first high pitched cries sound through the delivery room, she watches as he has to lean against the hospital bed for support. It seems his legs have stopped functioning. 

The baby is blonde. 

Hermione isn't surprised in the least. And she has Draco's nose. His eyes — bright blue with a hint of gray. But her mouth — that's Hermione's. Draco points it out as soon as they're home, laying her down in her crib and staring down at her white-blonde hair. He says her lips purse like Hermione's always do, and she only smiles, leaning against him for support. 

"But she looks just like you." She whispers, still in awe as she watches her daughter squirm and coo in the crib below her. "What am I supposed to do with two of you?"

Draco smirks, wrapping his arms around her. "It will be challenging, I'm sure." His hand combs through her curls before he places his thumb underneath her chin, lifting her face up towards his and ghosting their lips against one another. "But we'll manage."

Draco is never sent to Azkaban. The Ministry never even threatens to put him through a re-trail, and Hermione only discovers years later that Harry had put in a word with the Minister of Magic after he found out Hermione was pregnant. She hugs him tightly on his doorstep that day, and he tells her that it was the least he could do. 

Minerva Malfoy only looks more and more like her father the other she gets. And the day she turns one, Hermione goes upstairs to find Draco in his study, wand in hand and facing towards the opposite wall. 

"Draco?" She asks, coming up behind him as he spins around, a look on his face that she can only identify as shock. 

"Granger." He says breathlessly, "I — just — watch."

Hermione stands, confused for a moment before Draco points his wand up, a wide smile cracking across his face as he mutters the spell. 

"Expecto Patronum."

Hermione watches with wide eyes as a blue and white, wispy form bursts from the tip of his wand, the glowing form of an open-mouthed dragon dancing across the top shelf of the bookcases. Its wings flap and stretch, as if it's been trapped inside his wand for far too long, and it circles over Hermione's head until there are tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. When she finally turns back to Draco, smiling so broadly it's painful, she can only ask one thing. 

"Which memory did it?"

He lets a single tear fall before responding, and she catches herself wondering when the last time she saw him cry was. But it's not tears of sadness she's looking at now. No. He looks happier in this moment then she's ever seen him. He huffs with disbelief as he utters the words. 

"I thought about the day Minerva was born."

Hermione walks up to him. Slides her arms around his waist and presses her face against his chest. Feels his chin settle on top of her head. 

"I thought so." She lifts one of his hands up to her lips, kissing the back of his palm lightly. "That's the one I use now, too."


End file.
